Fix You
by Sandiane Carter
Summary: Post-ep for 47 Seconds. I totally wasn't going to do this...But then I had to.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **I know everyone's done this. I know that. But to be honest, this is entirely chezchuckles' and Cora Clavia's fault, for writing such terrible, heartbreaking stories, and making me feel like I had to make everything better. And I'm not even sure I've succeeded. Sigh. (Also, I totally ignored the previews for next week. Yup.)

* * *

><p><strong>Fix You<strong>

_And the tears come streaming down your face  
><em>_When you lose something you can't replace  
><em>_When you love somebody but it goes to waste  
><em>_Could it be worse?_

"Fix You" - Coldplay

* * *

><p>It takes her so long to finally put it together.<p>

It takes him not showing up to work, once, twice. (And when he does show up, his face is this careful, impassible mask that is absolutely unlike the man she knows, so unlike him that she would think it's funny, in fact, if her heart didn't crumple in her chest every time she looks at him.)

It takes him focusing solely on the cases, not on her; it takes the sudden, striking absence of those little looks, the touches, the playful comebacks.

For all she knows, Richard Castle is gone.

If she's honest, she knows something is wrong. She knew that very moment when he showed up at the bullpen, no trace of the usual smile in his eyes; she knew when she asked what he wanted to talk about, her heart tender and hopeful, so very ready, and he brushed her off.

But she didn't want to look at it too closely.

Because it could mean only one thing.

And she didn't want to face it.

Didn't want to face the fact that he might have heard her talking to that suspect, might have found out in the worst possible way - by accident - that she had been holding back on him. That she knew.

That she _remembered_.

But he would have come to her, right? He would have confronted her. So she refused to believe it.

She firmly, desperately, pushed away that possibility.

Until that day when she has to go down to the archives. Their case is strangely similar to a murder that happened eight years ago, and she needs to peer over the file, compare the details; but when she steps out of the elevator, their victim immediately vanishes from her mind.

Her body stills. Sobbing. There's someone sobbing down here.

And she knows the voice.

He said he was taking a break, going out for food; she had no reason to doubt that. Although his eyes were a little too dark, his mouth a little too tense-

It's not regular crying either. It's the choked, halted breathing of a drowning man; it's the raw keening of a dying animal. And Kate presses her palm to her mouth, bites hard into her own skin to keep herself from responding.

The world is blurry and she can't breathe, but she deserves it. She deserves it.

She did this to him.

Oh, oh-

She gasps silently, tries to catch her breath, fails, and she does what she's always done. Because it's unbearable, because she can't take it, can't face the fact that she's broken, _broken _him.

Kate Beckett runs away.

* * *

><p>She doesn't go far.<p>

Back in the elevator, she has to push the stop button with a trembling hand, because she can't let Ryan or Esposito or anyone see her like this. She's breathing too fast, her fingertips still pressed to the line of her mouth, as if she might need help pushing back the tears; she's hot and cold at once, and her stomach clenches periodically. She's going to be sick.

Oh god, oh god, what has she done?

She can't let herself cry.

If she starts now, she'll never stop.

Kate squats down, the back of her thighs touching her heels, and buries her face in her hands as she controls her respiration. Oxygen is painful, scratches her throat as it goes in; but after a while the whole process becomes smoother, slower, and she goes back to her feet.

The grief under lock and key in her chest.

The cops waiting by the elevator give her curious looks when she strides out, but she ignores them, focusing instead on getting back to her chair. Her legs are not as steady as she would like them.

Esposito, of course, needs only take a look at her face to know something's wrong.

"What's going on with you?" he asks, an eye on her, but the rest of his face still trained on their victim's finances.

Her mouth is dry; she touches her tongue to the corner of her lips, but it doesn't help.

She knows already, and yet she can't help asking.

"Espo, during that bomb case. When I was interviewing this suspect, the Hispanic guy?"

"Yeah. What about it?" He's looking at her now, really looking, and it doesn't help.

"Castle watched, didn't he?"

The words come out a little strangled, because just the thought of him behind the glass-

Esposito tilts his head at her, obviously trying to figure her out. "I think so, yeah. He asked where you were, and I told him. You know him - when he can't be a part of it, he at least has to watch."

It's true. So very true.

She wonders how her shredded heart is still beating.

"Beckett."

She drags her eyes back up to Esposito's, exhausted, wanting nothing more than to be left in peace.

"You gonna tell me what this is about? Why he keeps showing up looking like someone shot his dog?"

"No." Her reply is immediate, curt and defensive, and he obviously doesn't like it; but the moment he opens his mouth - probably to scold her - she's already speaking.

"Esposito. I'm not looking for advice, okay? This is _my_ screw up. My fault. I'll-" she swallows, tries to slip the words past the lump in her throat, "I'll fix it. I'll make it better."

Somehow.

Somehow she will.

Her fellow detective gives her a long look and throws his hands up in surrender. "You're the boss," he mutters before going back to his job.

* * *

><p>She spends the next hour establishing a strategy.<p>

She cannot put this off; she's already spent too much time in denial.

The moment he comes back, the moment she sees him hovering at the edge of her desk, she's going to get up, take his hand, and lead him somewhere quiet where they can talk. Maybe into the very interrogation room where he heard her say that she remembered - she knows the writer he is would find that fitting.

She's going to look at him and apologize - _please, please, let it not be too late_ - she's going to explain, tell him the truth - _and he has to listen_. How badly she needed it, the solace of his words, the light of a memory that wasn't blood, screaming and death; how she needed that beauty intact. Untouched.

If she'd gone anywhere near it - if she'd addressed it, had discussed it with him - she would have ruined things.

She knows this with absolute certainty.

Not just because she wasn't ready, not just because she was so fragile and already falling apart, but because it's what she does. She ruins things.

He's the one with the words, the right words, always.

She just-

She doesn't know how to do this.

But she tried to tell him, that day at the swings. She _did_ tell him. _I'm not gonna be able to have the kind of relationship that I want_-

With you.

Ah. She didn't say this. But he understood, didn't he? The "with you" was very much implied, and come _on, _Castle, what else could she have meant?

Ok, no. This is not the way to go about it. She can't let herself be angry. Kate rests her forehead against her hand, hears the muffled sobs from the archives again, and all the irritation seeps out of her.

She hurt him.

That's all she needs to know.

She hurt him with her silence, hurt him with her lies, and she needs to make it up to him. He deserves the truth from her.

The moment he shows up-

Except, he doesn't. She keeps glancing at the elevator, at the stairs, and it takes her a long, long time to accept it.

Castle isn't coming back.

* * *

><p>He texts her with a lame excuse, something about Alexis needing him, and all she can see is the broken man from earlier.<p>

She can't even be annoyed at his lie.

He must have stopped by the bathroom, looked at his face in the mirror, decided that there was no way he could come back to the bullpen without her noticing.

Her carefully established plan crumbles in front of her, pieces on the floor; she spends the rest of the day dragging its weight around.

She solves the case with Ryan and Esposito, but it doesn't feel good, doesn't feel right. There isn't the slightest flavor of triumph to it, not when she cuffs the murderer, not even when she turns back to the guys to call it a day.

Only ashes. Ashes in her mouth.

After she's done cleaning the murder board, she looks down at her father's watch. It's a little past eight. Still early enough. She's vaguely surprised, probably because the afternoon seemed to go on forever, a long, painful stretch of misery.

And yet, there's still time.

Kate closes her eyes and sways, catching herself on the edge of her desk.

Is that what she should do? Go to him?

The loft. Where his mother and daughter live. Kate cannot imagine what they must think of her now.

A wry smile twists her lips at the thought. Maybe there's been no major change. For all she knows, neither Alexis nor Martha have been great supporters of hers lately.

And with good reason.

Her mind flashes back to the sobs in the archives, the cracks in her heart ever-widening, and she starts to wonder. Maybe she shouldn't go at all. Maybe she shouldn't try to fix this.

He's probably better off without her.

Sure, he will hurt for a while - oh, and she will, too - but in the long run...he'd be safer. Happier. If she wasn't clogging up his world with her ghosts and her darkness and her murders.

She hunches over her desk, palm pressed tightly to her chest, the scar pulsing angrily through the thin fabric of her shirt. It's all she can do to keep the tears at bay; thank god, there's no one left to see her.

Oh. Castle.

She can't, she can't-

She can't give him up.

It hurts too much, just the thought of it. She needs him. She _needs_ him.

Castle.

Slowly, she starts to reconsider. He's a crime novelist, after all. He was fascinated with death long before he met her, right? Murders would be a part of his life even if _she_ wasn't.

True.

As for her mother's case-

Oh, enough. She's just making excuses for herself. This isn't her choice to make.

Regardless of whether or not she's good for him, she owes him the truth. He loves her; he deserves to know that she loves him back. And if he can't forgive her for lying, if he can't forgive her silence, then...

Then be it.

But she owes him to try.

* * *

><p>He stares alternatively at his glass of Scotch and at the remote control of his storyboard. Murder board. Whatever.<p>

The liquid has this rich, beautiful honey color that he finds fascinating in the dim light of his study; he finally curls an unsteady hand on the glass, brings it to his lips, knocks it back.

It burns, burns, burns.

The ring of fire.

He makes a pathetic sound, too close to tears to be called laughter, and closes his eyes. The alcohol numbs the pain a little, makes it more diffuse, a hazy curtain rather than a stone sinking his heart; he'll take it.

Maybe it can help him make a decision.

He stares some more at the remote.

He has mixed feelings about this. Parts of him want to erase the whole thing, the tentative connections, the new leads that don't go anywhere. Kate Beckett wiped out of his life.

He could. He could throw the information away, never tell her. _Sinning by silence._ Only seems fair.

Except he can't, of course.

But by now, he's seriously doubting his ability to keep working by her side. He told his mother _Watch me_ in a moment of bravado, a stupid manifestation of a battered pride, but the reality is much grimmer than that.

It's holding his breath when she stands too close, and keeping his face neutral when she attempts a joke; it's deliberately moving away, putting distance between them even though all he wants is the opposite.

Never gonna happen, Castle. _Forget it._

The reality is his heart trampled, every second of every day, by the merciless knowledge that she doesn't feel the same way. Will never feel the same way.

He can't do it.

He sighs, trembling, exhausted, and runs a hand down his face.

He's spent hours - _hours_ - dredging every memory that he has of the last months, her smiles, her words, her touches, dissecting them, trying to understand how he can have deluded himself so. Trying to find a thread of hope, something, anything, that he can hold on to.

But the thing is - it's all subjective. Like that stuff she said, about the things you don't want to put off anymore. It all relies so heavily on interpretation. Yes, he thought that she meant him, that she meant _them._ He thought it was hope shining in her eyes.

But he can't know for sure. He can't. Maybe she meant something completely different. Maybe she meant that she ought to visit her very sick grandmother (she might have one, for all he knows), maybe she was thinking of her mother's case, maybe...

And the hope? Maybe he was so eager to see it there that he made it up. Invented it.

Same goes with everything else.

Her comment about _third time being the charm_? Could just be a friend cheering him up.

_Next time, without the tiger_ - their usual banter. No deeper meaning to it.

Her joy at finding alive in the bank. Ah, this one holds up a little longer, is harder to dismiss. But they're friends, right? Good friends. Close friends.

She would probably have been just as concerned if it had been Lanie inside the bank.

His mouth tastes acid, tastes like salt. Like tears.

There's a sharp knock on the loft's door. He hears it through his pained stupor, vaguely thinks about ignoring it. Tries to remember if his mother or Alexis are there to act as hostesses.

His mother-

Uh. She said something about going out. Earlier?

He thinks.

Alexis. Alexis should be here.

He drags himself out of his chair anyway, because he doesn't want to spend any more time staring at the remote control. The symbol of everything he's lost.

Everything he never had.

He hears voices at the door as he stumbles out of his office, catches himself on the wall. He's not even that drunk. Not on alcohol, anyway. But agony? Maybe. Maybe he's drunk on agony.

Mmm. That's good. He should use it for Nikki Heat, next time she pushes Rook away. Because she will. Of course she will.

The voices get louder, pierce through the fog in his mind. Leaning against the wall, he listens, grown quiet and still at once.

Alexis. And Beckett.

Kate.

* * *

><p>The door opens, and although Kate did envision this scenario, she was really hoping to avoid that. A confrontation with Alexis.<p>

The red-haired girl pushes her braid back, looks at the detective. She's not smiling, not welcoming either, but at least she's not openly hostile.

"Detective Beckett."

"Alexis," Kate says with a nod. A beat of awkward silence. "Is your dad here?"

Castle's daughter presses her lips together, studies Beckett for a moment. "What do you want with him?"

_Everything._

The thought has sprung, unbidden, and leaves Kate a little breathless. "I just. I want to talk to him."

Alexis hesitates, throws a look over her shoulder. "He's not...he's not in his best shape right now."

_I know_, Kate almost says, her mind flashing back, once again, to the crumpled man in the archives. "Please," she murmurs instead, allowing a little of the urgency she feels into her voice.

She has to do this now. _Now._ Before the gap between them can grow even wider, before it becomes a gulf that cannot be bridged.

_Please, please, before it's too late._

The young woman twists her mouth, shakes her head as she makes a decision. "No. Look. Tonight's really not a good time - maybe if you could just wait for tomorrow-"

No. No.

"Alexis, I have to see him." Uh-oh. That sounded too much like Detective Beckett; she can see the girl closing up in front of her, can see that she's losing whatever small credit she might have had.

Nicely done, Beckett.

"Oh, _have to_?" Alexis snaps. "So what, you think you can show up at our door at any hour of the night, and just walk in to see if you could possibly damage my dad a little more?"

"It's not-" _it's only eight thirty_, Kate wants to say, but that's not the right thing - that's not the main issue here. "I'm not looking to damage him," she breathes softly, regret and sorrow laced with her words. Oh, Castle. "I want." The words are so reluctant to come out. "I want to fix him," she finishes, feeling ridiculous for the way it sounds sounds. "I want to try."

Castle's daughter seems somewhat taken aback by this new development.

Before she can come up with a new attack, or a new reason to deny Beckett, a voice comes from the living room, surprising them both.

"Let her in, Alexis."

The red-haired girl opens the door wider, reluctantly stepping aside; Kate takes a deep breath and steps in.

"Thanks," she says, not sure which Castle she's addressing. Alexis gives her a brief nod and a look heavy with things unsaid, a sort of cross between _I don't trust you_ and _Please don't hurt him_, before she disappears upstairs.

Kate hopes she manages to make her eyes say, _I'll do my best._

* * *

><p>He stands in the middle of his living room, doesn't move, doesn't offer to take her coat like he always does.<p>

She closes the door, hopes he sees the message in that. She's not going to run.

His face is serious, solemn, his eyes full of that muted reproach that has been weighing her down for the last week, and she presses her lips together.

He's not going to make this easy.

Right.

"You had something to tell me?" he asks matter-of-factly. All business now.

She opens her mouth to answer but her empty stomach chooses that moment to make itself heard. Between the case and the time she spent worrying over Castle, she kinda forgot to eat. Of course.

Kate presses a hand to her abdomen, somewhat embarrassed - as if it could quell the growl - and when she looks up again, Castle's face has lost its cool neutrality. There's such conflict in his eyes; it's painful. The man she knows seems to win, though, because his mouth softens imperceptibly and he asks, "Do you want to eat something?"

She shakes her head - she couldn't eat if she wanted to, what with the knots twisting in her stomach - but apparently, that's the wrong thing to do. His eyes grow dark again, and she realizes how it must look to him, how refusing his food equals rejecting him. Not very smart, Kate.

Too late, anyway. He's already turning away, his jaw set.

"Castle," she calls, and he must hear the apology in her tight voice, because he looks back at her over his shoulder. Looks hard. Gauging her.

"Let's go to my office," he says.

She follows him silently, although she wouldn't mind Alexis overhearing them. Or Martha, for that matter. But if he wants privacy, she won't deny him.

He lets her inside and then closes the door, turns to her. Waiting.

But his whole posture is so defensive, his arms crossed, his eyes wary; Kate finds herself swallowing anxiously. He doesn't want to listen to her. He's afraid of whatever she's come to say.

Oh.

"Castle," she murmurs, uncertain, her heart going out to him. The rest of her body probably does, too, because the next moment he's recoiling, stepping back into the wall. Away from her.

Okay. Okay. No touching.

She tries to ignore the burn of rejection, settles back against his desk instead. The silence stretches between them, dark and hurtful, and she knows she has to fill it, knows she has to speak up. Now.

But oh, the words are so hard to find. "I'm sorry that you had to find out that way," she says at last, because it's the truth, and it's partly why the tears are burning in her chest.

He laughs.

He laughs, and there's no joy to it.

"You mean, you're sorry I had to find out at all."

She opens her mouth to protest, but he's pushing himself off the wall and coming closer, and he looks-

Furious.

So much hurt in his eyes. Her heart stutters.

"How long did you plan on keeping up the lie, Kate? How long did you think it was acceptable to keep me hanging - _hoping_? Or did you just think if you said nothing, it would all go away? That all my - undesirable - feelings would disappear over time?"

Undesirable - what?

She stares at him, confused, lost.

He deflates, retreats again. "That's it, then. You thought silence was the answer to your prayers." His voice is so venomous that she'd step back if she didn't have the desk blocking her. "Didn't even have the decency to acknowledge my feelings and tell me you didn't feel the same."

Didn't feel-?

Wait. Wait.

He-

He thinks that's the reason why she kept quiet? Oh god. Oh no. Castle.

Strangely enough, the main emotion springing inside her is anger. It's good, too, because anger is much more manageable than sorrow, has a lot more energy to it. Anger will sustain her. Will make her fight.

Before she can let it out, though - before she can strike back and point out his lack of faith in her - he's speaking again, his tones so tired, so dejected that a wave of guilt sweeps over her.

"Okay. Okay, Kate. I get it. You're - sorry. Fine. Now can you just, please leave? I'd like to cling to whatever shreds of dignity I have left, if you'll allow me."

The dark humor, the grimace that twists his mouth suck all the remaining rage out of her. Just like that.

Now all she wants to do is cry.

"Castle." It's so wrong, so wrong. Everything so wrong. "I - I love you."

His head jerks up, his whole body, as if he's taken a physical blow. His eyes bore into her, distrustful, disbelieving, and she cannot help thinking that from all the possible scenarios she'd admittedly imagined for this, this is by far the worst one.

Castle scrutinizing her for a sign that she's lying.

Part of her - most of her, really - wants to run, wants to hide somewhere and curl into a ball until the sting has lessened, until the pain has dulled. Those words... She hasn't spoken them in a long time, not to Josh, not to Tom, and Will - well, they obviously didn't make a lasting impression on him.

But Castle.

Castle deserves them. Deserves all she has to give. So she grits her teeth, and she waits.

He's always been good at reading her.

When he doesn't give her any kind of answer, she moves towards him, her hand opening for his, but he stops her with his words. "I don't - I don't want your pity, Kate."

He's not looking at her now; his eyes are riveted to the floor, but she can see how tense he is. His fists clench rhythmically, his breathing too fast, like he's trying to hold back-

Keep himself from hoping.

Shit, shit.

What has she done?

She exhales a shaky breath, presses her fingertips to her temple. There has to be a way. Has to be a way to fix it.

This time, when she drops her hand, the words come without summons.

"Do you know," she says slowly, "the first time when I realized I was in danger of falling in love with you?"

His eyes dart to hers, surprise overriding reluctance for an instant. It helps, gives her courage.

"It was during that...case, with the missing woman. You know, the one who was in a freezer. Melanie. With the two kids."

"Yeah," he rasps. The look on his face tells her he didn't expect the sound of his own voice any more than she did. "I - I remember," he says quickly.

She nods, finds herself almost smiling at the memory. "It was the first time I'd ever come here. And I found you - playing laser-tag with Alexis. Martha with a beauty mask on her face. Which was, well. Not what I expected."

He huffs, but she thinks maybe the corner of his mouth has come up a little. Maybe.

"And you told me to come in and showed me in here, and I thought, _this is a man I could love. _Not the playboy signing women's chests, not the arrogant writer telling me how to do my job, but the man who spends his nights playing laser-tag with his daughter. Who builds his plots on a board so similar to ours at the precinct."

"You told me your story after that case," he murmurs. "Told me about your mom."

She smiles in the dim light.

"And you didn't laugh at me. You weren't embarrassed; you weren't sorry. You said - just what I need to hear. You made me laugh."

"And then you left," he says, but his voice is not accusatory anymore. It's just...sad.

He's not talking about that night.

She sighs, takes a tentative step closer. When he doesn't move away, she takes another, and another, until she can lay a gentle hand on his biceps, curl her fingers there.

"I didn't know what to do with you, Castle," she admits quietly. "Didn't know what to do with your words."

There's a beat, two, and she's wondering whether to say more - if she should try and explain how her world revolved around that hole in her chest, how she had to ignore everything else in order to survive, how it was too late after that - when he speaks.

"And you do now?"

He still sounds guarded, a little doubtful, and she can't blame him. But there's less pain there. It's lost some of the raw, wounded quality that tore at her heart earlier, and for that she's grateful.

"I'm...getting there," she answers carefully, finding a smile for him. _Just tell the truth, Kate. _"Still working on it."

A long pause.

She can tell he's thinking, considering, and so she makes herself wait, even though it's agony, even though all she wants is thread her fingers through his hair and bring his mouth down to hers.

"When you said-"

He stops, seems to struggle with himself. Obviously this is something that has been nagging at him, torturing him, maybe, and he can't let go of it.

Holding her breath, she loosens her fingers, let them slide up, follow the curve of his shoulder until they're at his neck, caressing his jaw.

He closes his eyes, goes very still. It seems to help, though, because his breathing slows down, relaxes.

He starts again, whispering. "When you said, _it makes you think of all those things in your life that you don't want to put off anymore-_"

She sucks in a sharp breath, startled by the suddenness of the pain, the jolt of realization. She didn't understand until now - how deep it runs, how she's shaken him - there are cracks down to the very foundation of his belief in them.

"I meant you, Castle," she chokes, the words too eager, crowding her throat. "I meant_ us_. God, I meant us."

She feels his chest swell with the relieved intake of air that he doesn't even try to hide, and he turns his eyes to her, so blue, pleading, imploring.

He's going to make her cry. He's going-

"You did?" he whispers back, and there's such hope, such earnestness in his voice, _Castle_- "You did?"

She steps into him, finally, her palms to the broad warmth of his chest, her body calling for his, and she looks at him with all the confidence, all the determination she can muster.

"I did, Rick. I promise."

He makes a small, animal noise at the back of his throat, and then his lips are pressed to hers, so fast that she doesn't even see it coming.

He tastes of Scotch and tears, of desperation, but she parts her mouth anyway, lets him in, her tongue working to soothe, heal the damage she's done, give her words a reality. He holds her close, tight, his fingers marking her skin, branding her; she nips at his bottom lip and presses hard against him, tries to tell him with her body. _I'm not leaving. I love you._

And when the kiss slows, when he gentles against her and brings his hands to her cheeks, cradles her face like a precious thing, she feels something give inside her. As if the long fingers of guilt and regret that twisted her stomach and wrenched her heart have finally let go.

Kate breathes against him, into him, fills up with his scent, his taste, the heat of his palms against her cheeks.

And she thinks, _maybe_.

Maybe they'll be okay.

Maybe she can fix this.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **I think we needed a lot more interaction between Castle and that gorgeous black dress. Partly set during The Limey, but after the events of "Fix You" (because yeah, my characters are not *that* stupid.)

* * *

><p><em>I didn't mean to hurt you<br>I didn't know what I was doing_  
><em>But I know what I have done<em>

"I'm Going To Stop Pretending That I Didn't Break Your Heart" - The Eels

* * *

><p>He asks her to stay that night.<p>

Not like _that_, although the thought does cross her mind - of course it does. But she can tell it's not what he has in mind; she can see the shadows that linger at the back of his eyes, the way he hesitates still, before letting his mouth curve into a smile.

So instead she curls up on his bed, on top of the covers, with all her clothes on (she can hardly believe it), and she looks at him. His position mirrors hers, his right hand pillowing his cheek, the darkness weaving a mysterious pattern over the side of his face; he reaches out and gingerly touches his left fingers to her temple, her eyebrow, her nose.

She closes her eyes and lets herself feel the progression rather than watching it. His fingertips are soft along her cheekbone, the line of her jaw; his thumb caresses the seam of her mouth, and she has to keep herself from opening up, snatching the finger between her teeth.

There'll be a time for that. There will.

Just - not now.

His palm comes to rest against her neck, finding a natural resting place at the juncture with her ear, and she curls her own fingers around his wrist. Keeping him there.

"Like what you see?" she murmurs, working her lips into some sort of smirk. It's a lot of effort.

"Mmm," he says, his voice heavy, rough with the sleep he needs. "Beautiful. You're always beautiful."

Her breath catches in her chest as his eyes flutter, and she's so close, she can almost see the separate lashes brushing his skin. Her fingers seek him, the lightest of touches against his lids, soft and encouraging.

"You should sleep," she says. "You look exhausted."

She doesn't ask if he's been sleeping lately; she's afraid she already knows the answer. But Castle's eyes jerk open and he frowns, obviously struggling.

"No."

No-?

"Don't wanna sleep," he says gravely, looking at her in something like sorrow.

"Why not?" she murmurs, her hand moving of its own volition, tangling in the soft baby hairs at the back of his neck.

He closes his eyes at the caress, lets out a sound that feels more like pain than pleasure, then meets her gaze again.

"If I fall asleep, when I wake up it'll all be a dream."

He says it with such dark conviction, such resignation, that Kate has to press her lips together, breathe through her nose, ride the wave of pain breaking in her chest before she can speak again.

She shifts her weight and inches closer, until there's no space left between their bodies, until she can feel the pound of his heartbeat under her palm. She touches her mouth to his collarbone, lets her tongue brush against it too, feels his body shiver. Good. This is what she wants, to crowd him with the reality of her, to kiss the disbelief away, bury it under the weight of her love.

Because she loves him. _Loves _him.

"No dream, Castle," she murmurs, her lips at his skin, teeth nipping.

And she slides her hand down, down to the hem of his shirt, her fingers sneaking under the fabric and splaying against his warm abdomen. He shudders, eyes wide and helpless, looking at her with such longing that her chest tightens, a string of guilt wrapped around her heart that keeps her from breathing.

Relax, Kate. You got this. You got this.

"Ask me," she says suddenly, and one of his eyebrows lifts in inquiry. "Ask me anything. Something you don't know, something only I could answer. Can't be a dream, right? If I'm telling you things you don't know, things I've never told you before."

He considers her for a moment, then gives a half-shrug as if to say, _can't hurt to try_.

"Okay. Uh." She has to make an effort to keep her smile at bay, because honestly - this is Richard Castle, probably the most curious person she's ever met, and now that he can ask what he wants...he doesn't have a question?

"What - what's your favorite color?" he ends up asking.

She scoffs, gives him a look.

"What?" he says defensively.

"Seriously? My favorite color? Is that the best you can do?"

"What's wrong with it? Do you even know mine?" he asks, part indignation, part doubt - she can't help rejoicing at how petulant, how alive he sounds. So much better than dejected and hopeless.

"I..." Wait, does she know? She assumed she did, but-

Maybe not. "Isn't...isn't it blue?"

She's thinking of that french blue shirt he wears sometimes, that he looks absolutely scrumptious in - in the right light, it's the exact same color as his eyes - but he laughs, shakes his head against her. "Nope. Orange."

"Orange?"

"Yeah," he answers lightly, undeterred by her surprise. "I like orange. It's bright and lively and daring. It's a good color. The color of gorgeous sunsets and poached eggs. Fire. Good cheddar, too."

Uh. Okay.

"So what's yours?" he nudges, a hand at her waist.

"Purple," she replies without thinking, still puzzled by his answer. His fingers are caressing her hip, too, circling, hypnotizing; it doesn't help.

"Purple," he repeats thoughtfully, making a low noise at the back of his throat. "Hmm. I like it. You look good in purple."

The bedroom is so dark; there's really no point in blushing. "Sorry," she says teasingly, trying to picture an orange shirt, "but I don't think I can return the compliment."

"You wound me, Beckett. You don't think my rugged good looks can survive orange?"

"I..." She worries her lower lip. "I need more evidence in order to make a decision."

He laughs soundlessly against her hair, brushes his lips to her temple. "Orange and purple look good together though."

She hums her agreement, feels him yawn and cranes her neck to look up at him. "You need sleep, Castle."

His eyes are closed already, and he seems less intent on fighting it this time. "Promise you'll be here when I wake up," he says, not a question, more like a request.

Like she's planning on going anywhere.

"I promise," she answers, her mouth at his shoulder to seal her words with a kiss. "I'll be here, Rick."

He heaves a deep sigh, relief, she thinks, and then he's out like a light. Kate stays awake for a long time, eyes open in the dark, listening to the even sounds of his breathing, and she tries not to think of how deeply she's hurt him.

* * *

><p>Alexis pours water in the coffee maker, enough for two, and then turns the thing on, rubbing a hand over her tired eyes.<p>

She hasn't spent the best night.

She was nervous about Kate and her dad downstairs, kept listening attentively for sounds of fighting, raised voices, slamming doors - but nothing. She should be relieved, probably, but for some reason that silence only made her more uncomfortable.

She hasn't dared venture in her father's study yet, because she does not want, does not need to find him passed out at his desk again, a glass in one hand, an empty bottle of Scotch in the other.

It's only happened twice - and the bottle was still half-full last time, thank God for small favors - but Alexis hated it anyway, hated the whole thing, because her dad...her dad is better than this. Her dad is this sweet, brilliant man who can spin a story and capture any audience, the man who made her funny-shaped pancakes (so-called dinosaurs) when she was sick, who bought land on the moon, whose curiosity is endless.

Her dad isn't that drunken guy who can't be bothered to walk the twenty feet that stand between him and his bed.

So she waits and eats a couple toasts, burns her tongue on too-hot coffee, hoping that he will make an appearance.

When she started her internship at the morgue, her dad was dead-set against going to the precinct together - he insisted that they needed boundaries, gave her a lengthy speech about wanting his own space, and she'd shrugged and said, fine. (If she was upset about him not wanting to share every aspect of his life with her, she was certainly not about to show it).

But in the end, he got used to it. And so, during the last weeks, the rare mornings when they got up and had breakfast at the same time, they either shared a cab or walked, or took the subway together.

Which is the reason why she's waiting now, spacing out her last sips of coffee even as she starts to accept the truth. When the cup's empty, Alexis sets it back on the table, lifts herself off her chair and walks, purposeful, if reluctant, to her father's study.

She debates knocking, but if he passed out, he probably won't hear - and if he's actually asleep in his bed, then she's not sure she wants to wake him.

So she pushes the door open, slow and careful to keep it from creaking, and she slides inside the room.

It's empty.

The young woman releases the breath she's been holding, relief making her a few pounds lighter as she tiptoes to the bedroom door, repeats the process. The glance she risks inside doesn't tell her anything - not enough light; her eyes haven't had time to adjust - so Alexis controls her breathing and steps through the opening.

She sees from the first that the form in the bed is too large to be her dad. Or, more specifically, too large to be just her dad.

And then, as darkness grows more comfortable, she identifies the tangle of limbs, the long, dark hair, the jeans and t-shirt that Kate was wearing last night when Alexis came to open the door.

Well.

It makes sense, at least.

She'd have been surprised if it were any other woman than Kate.

Alexis moves forward cautiously, not wanting to wake them, but eager to take a look at the detective's face. It's for her own peace of mind. She needs to - needs to be sure. She needs to know her dad will be okay.

She's disappointed, however, because they're facing each other in bed and her father completely hides his companion, his broad frame shielding her; he, however, she can get a look at, although his cheek is mashed against Kate's hair.

He's sound asleep, the remains of a smile on his face, his expression completely relaxed. Blissful. Alexis chews on her lip, is battling the anxiety that rises up in her chest when she notices Kate's arm, wound around his waist. For some reason, the sight of this arm is what does it - the loving curl of the elbow, the fingers that, the girl finds out, are loosely digging into her father's shirt. They give Alexis confidence, ease her heart into believing. Into trusting.

Maybe not trust that it will work out, because to be honest, she doesn't have the slightest idea (her dad can be utterly annoying, and from what she's seen Kate is rather stubborn too) - but trust that both of them are, at least, at the same place right now.

That they both want this.

_Okay,_ Alexis thinks. Okay.

She retreats quietly, pulling the door closed behind her, her chest tight with a bittersweet feeling, peace and sadness both. And, maybe, a tinge of jealousy that comes with the realization that her dad is no longer hers and hers alone.

That he probably hasn't been for a while.

* * *

><p>Castle sleeps peacefully for the first time in weeks.<p>

When he finally cracks an eye open, struggles through waking, the heavy weight of his body dragging him down, the sun is already up. Has been for a while, from the looks of it.

He grunts, utterly unable to move, lets his eyelids slide shut again.

Too much effort.

His chest feels tight, uncomfortably warm; he squirms a little, feels for the covers, intending to push them back. His fingers close on an elbow instead.

Knowledge flashes through him instantly, bright and welcome, if surreal.

Kate.

It wasn't a dream, then. Oh, thank you, thank you, God-

He opens his eyes again, a lot more eager, more willing this time, and drinks in the sight of her, the hesitant morning light tangled in her dark curls, the cute little frown that puts a wrinkle on her brow, the glimpse of teeth through her parted lips. He lifts a tentative hand, can't help himself - he has to touch her, make sure - and he caresses her cheek, slow and soft, the beautiful, sharp angle of the cheekbone, the smooth skin.

He leaves his fingers there.

Kate mumbles something, orients her face into his touch, her eyelid, her lashes meeting his fingertip; he holds his breath, but she doesn't wake. She just settles there - as if it could be pleasant, his hand covering half of her face - sighs, and goes still again.

He forgets to breathe altogether, heart hammering in his chest, her words from last night resounding in his years.

_Castle. I love you._

Yeah. Maybe-

Maybe he believes her.

* * *

><p>Her phone rings about an hour later; it's Esposito, with a case, and they have to get out of bed, sprint through breakfast - he would let her shower first, but she shakes her head, says she needs to go home to change clothes, anyway.<p>

He expects them to part on the sidewalk, but just as he opens his mouth to say, _see you at the scene_, Kate reaches for his hand, drags him with her to the car instead. He gets to go upstairs too, wait in her living room as she gets changed (looking through her books can certainly not be called snooping, right?), and then she kisses him, fast and hard and coffee-flavored, before they leave her apartment.

He follows her, breathless, stunned, body tingling with arousal; it still lingers in his veins when they get to the crime scene.

She's more careful at the precinct. He doesn't know if it's because of Gates, or the guys, or if she simply doesn't feel comfortable holding his hand in public; but she also keeps giving him those tender looks when she thinks no one is watching, keeps touching him every chance she gets, and he's just.

Amazed.

And uncertain.

It's all - it's moving too fast, or maybe not fast enough - the_ I love yous_ are hanging between them and for a couple days, he doesn't know what to do, because he can't bring himself to move them forward, can't quite seem to reach the level of trust he had in her before he stumbled onto her interrogation with Bobby. He's trying, he is, but-

His heart is still a little too raw, still reluctant, and he doesn't know what to do.

Until Colin Hunt comes along.

* * *

><p>She looks divine.<p>

Absolutely divine.

The long, smooth line of her in that black, amazingly simple dress, the light makeup that lets her shine through, the dark brilliance of her eyes the only jewel she's ever going to need. Castle knows he's staring, but that's the least of his concerns right now.

The main is probably jealousy, seeing the way his heart twists in vigorous protest against his ribs when Hunt takes her arm, and Rick has to make himself stay, keep his legs from jerking towards her, keep his hand from reaching for her elbow.

For the first time ever, he wishes she were a little less beautiful, a little less striking. Maybe then the Scotland Yard detective wouldn't look so pleased, wouldn't seem so aware of the unequaled loveliness of his date.

No, not date.

It's business. It's a case. It's-

It's an undercover operation, and this time he's not the one playing her boyfriend.

It hurts more than it should. But he's looking at her, observing her - transfixed is really what it is - and so he notices the tiny things, the light strain in her smile, her split second of hesitation before she takes Hunt's arm.

He clings to those things, uses them a shield against the nagging envy, the doubt worrying his stomach, the looks of sympathy that the guys rest on him as Kate walks away, the dark fabric rustling around her ankles and licking at Hunt's dress pants.

It's only a case.

* * *

><p>Nikki Heat is a decent distraction. Especially when coupled with a glass of single malt whisky.<p>

It's the good stuff, an eighteen-year-old Bowmore that he got a couple summers ago, after one of his European tours ended in Glasgow and a twelve-year-old Alexis convinced him that they should explore the Scottish wilderness; he remembers fondly her sighs of longing at the adorable lambs on the side of the road, her cute little nose wrinkling at the smell of peat in the Bowmore distillery.

Almost good enough to keep him from thinking about Beckett.

Or, more specifically, about Beckett in that dress.

Beckett whispering in Hunt's ear, leaning in as she catches sight of their target, pretending to laugh at his jokes. Or maybe she laughs in earnest - maybe she enjoys his warmth at her side, his broad shoulders-

He grunts in frustration, buries his head in his hands.

Ridiculous. He's being ridiculous.

He knows her. He's spent three, almost four years working with her, studying her, and if he knows one thing, it's that Kate Beckett wouldn't have told him she loved him if she didn't mean it.

And no matter the whispers of his insecure heart - _she only said it out of pity, Rick; she only said it because she wants to use you as her crutch a little longer _- his brain *knows* better.

He knows better.

With a sigh, Castle gives his attention back to his laptop, fingertips hovering above the keys as he reads through the utterly depressing scene he's spent the last hour working on.

A decided knock at the door makes him look up in surprise, check his watch. Almost one.

He gets up, his insides quivering with stupid hope, because considering the late hour, it can only be two people. His mother, whom he's pretty sure remembered to take her key this time.

And Kate Beckett.

He checks through the peephole - he's learned to be careful - and then, his heart bursting, he opens the door.

There she is. All dark loveliness, hair and eyes and dress, her fingers nervously clutching a tiny purse as she directs a hopeful smile at him.

"Hey, Castle."

"Hey," he murmurs back, dumbstruck, gratitude silencing, strangling him. All night, all night he's been waiting for this moment, and he's not entirely sure he hasn't fallen asleep in his office chair - not sure he isn't dreaming - but his poor, inadequate response suggests that he isn't.

He's always a lot smoother than this in his dreams.

Beckett doesn't seem to mind, though, keeps giving him that smile, beautiful and knowing, and he finally opens the door wider, steps back. "Come in."

* * *

><p>She wasn't convinced it was a good idea until now, until she sees his eyes light up at the sight of her, the ripples of joy and disbelief in a sea of blue.<p>

That's when she realizes exactly how much she's missed him tonight, how unnatural it was, to make small talk and dance and work together with Hunt when it should have been him, should have been her partner by her side all along.

Castle.

Kate moves inside the loft at his invitation, but cannot seem to stop there; instead she takes two more steps, crowds him, his body large and warm and delicious, his mouth surprised and willing against hers as she curls her arms around his neck.

He kisses her back, fierce and unyielding, his fingers burning at her waist, digging into the soft skin as if she were naked; she moans and grazes his tongue with her teeth, doesn't even feel the pain as he backs her into the closing door, forceful, urgent.

He breaks away too soon, pants against her cheekbone, his arms tight around her as he gathers himself. She's not sure she wants him in control, but to be honest, she wasn't planning on kissing him either, so maybe it's a good thing one of them knows what they're doing.

She presses her lips to the line of his jaw, the hollow of his neck, murmurs as she feels him shiver, "Been dreaming of doing this all night."

He makes a low, strangled sound in his throat, maybe a laugh, and he kisses her temple firmly, gentle fingers working at her neck.

"Kate," he sighs, angling himself back so he can look at her. She likes what she sees in his eyes.

"You," he says, shaking his head slightly. "This dress-"

He doesn't need to finish his sentence; his voice trailing off is enough to send this rush of warmth through her veins, her body crackling with the exquisite sensation of feminine power.

"Yeah?" she answers in a low tone, giving him a predatory look.

His eyes are so dark they can hardly be called blue anymore. "Yeah," he says, and the word is rough, sexy, fire licking at her bare skin. "You have no idea."

Oh, so he's stealing her lines now. She bites her lip, tries to rein herself in, her brain swamped with pictures of him that are not at all PG. He must be doing the same, because he clears his throat, asks, "Did you get the guy's DNA?"

The case. Good call, Castle.

"Yeah," she replies, smiling proudly. "Had to do all the work, too. Hunt was useless."

His eyes sparkle at that; it's clearly what he wants to hear. "Oh?"

"Yeah," she breathes, getting closer again, her body moving without her consent. He smells attractively, entrancingly male, smells like Castle, and it's a relief after Hunt's classy, elaborate cologne.

"And you're the better dancer," she adds, her lips curving up, her palms teasing his elbows.

"You danced with him?" he blurts, then closes his eyes, presses his lips together as if he could take the words back.

She lets her fingers whirl up his forearms, soft and comforting. "Had to," she answers. "Dance floor gave the best view of the room."

"Of course it did," he says quietly, but his voice isn't bitter, isn't angry. Only understanding, acceptance in it.

She brushes her mouth to his neck, his cheek, aligns her body to his, looking for a way to soothe, heal the pain behind his words. He wanted to be there with her, just like she'd have wanted to be with him, had things been reversed.

And then she knows what to do.

"Dance with me, Rick," she says.

He obeys without question, without hesitation, his arms warm, right around her as he starts twirling her across the room, the silence unfolding, rich and beautiful between them.

* * *

><p>He's absolutely underdressed, of course, jeans and a ratty old t-shirt that probably stopped deserving the name a while back; but Kate feels liquid and silvery in his arms, and every time the silky material of her dress whispers against him, it's like a cool, healing balm applied to the fresh, stupid wound of his jealousy.<p>

He moves slowly, holding her close, swaying to the tune that plays in his mind - it sounds a lot like The Righteous Brothers' _Unchained Melody _- a hand curled around her fingers, the other dancing at her waist, as if hypnotized by her warmth, the lovely curve that fits his palm so well.

And when the song's over, when he's at peace, nothing but love for her left in his heart, Rick leans in, traces the contour of her ear with his lips, his mouth settling at the soft place where jaw meets neck.

He darts his tongue out for a taste, suckles at her skin until he feels her shiver against him, both hands fisted on his t-shirt, her breath stuttering against his ear.

"Castle," she murmurs, but she's not telling him to stop, and if she were he's not sure he would listen.

He follows the delicate line of her neck down to her shoulder, presses gentle kisses to the sharp jut of her collarbone; she pants in surprise, gripping him tighter, and the edge of pain limns the burst of colors in his mind, the rainbow of delight.

He wants, he wants - all of her, tonight, with him. Always. He needs the forever, needs the promise, needs _her_. The uncertainty, the prospect of losing her; he can't live with those, he can't, he won't-

But when he opens his mouth, he's surprised by the words that come out. "Stay with me tonight, Kate."

She makes a soft, indistinct, absolutely wonderful noise that he wants to call keening; her forehead presses against his cheek as he straightens, her face hidden, her lips parted at his jaw, hot and breathless.

_Say yes_, he wants to say, beg, push her. _You know you want to._

But no. He's not going to plead, not going to force her into anything; instead he just gives her the truth, his mouth poised at her temple, murmuring. "I want you."

It's all it takes.

He hears a sharp intake of air, a sigh, almost a sob, and then she comes alive against him, writhing as she pushes her aggressive tongue past his lips, wild and fierce, ruthless - all he's ever wanted.

_Kate._

* * *

><p>Before she knows what she's doing, she's pushing him back into his office, stumbling with him into his bedroom, a little desperate, unsure if the burn in her chest is caused by his tongue, his hands, or the darkness in his eyes when he asked her to stay.<p>

But she can't stop kissing him, can't seem to untangle their lips, and then his fingers are working at her dress, so light, so clever, and _oh_ - she's not wearing a bra-

She holds her breath as the fabric slides down her body, that lovely rustle of silk pooling down at her feet; when she looks up at him, wondering if her blush will show in the dimness, he's staring intensely into her eyes.

Challenging and proud, as if to say, I'm not like any other guy. It's you I want. Not a pair of breasts.

She tries to breathe, chokes on it, and he's there again, palms at her ribs, his thumbs so tender and his mouth worshipping even as she gasps, struggles, fishes for the self-control she no longer has.

She moans - is that her? Really, is that her making that sound? - and she arches against him, hungry for more, heart pounding with need.

He takes her mouth again, tongue wet and sliding across hers; one of his hands drifts south and she has only time to wonder - _what kind of panties _- oh, right, the black lace - before he has her writhing against him.

She gasps again and this time it's loud, but_ damn_, Castle, this is not playing fair, and it's not - it's not how it should happen, no. It's not.

The awareness spreads, gives her the strength to step back, curl her fingers on his wrist, staying him. "N-no."

He regards her, and even if the lack of light, she sees it all, the shock and the hurt and the confusion in his eyes. Oh - oh, no, she didn't mean. Castle.

"No?" he says, and his voice is rough, so uncertain that she wants to smack herself.

Why does she keep doing this? How can she always get it wrong?

She lets her hand slide up to his elbow but he's already moving away, retreating, and so she had to follow. "Castle, wait. I didn't mean - I just-" she swallows, seeks his eyes. "Please."

He looks at her, reluctant, but waiting too. Waiting for her.

Oh, oh, this man. She can never, ever make it up to him-

Kate steps closer and drapes himself over him, feels him shudder when she presses her bare chest to him, leaning in to kiss his neck. Slow and warm, loving. She takes her time, loves the growl that trembles in this throat when she moves to his Adam's apple.

"See?" she murmurs. "This is how."

"What?" he grunts, his arms around her now, keeping her there. "I don't understand, Kate."

"How it should be," she breathes, licks his collarbone, shivers with him this time. "Let me love you, Castle."

She pushes him towards the bed, one step at a time, exploring his mouth languidly before she had to let go, puts her hands on his shoulders to make him sit. His hands have not left her waist and she goes down with him, her knees parting to cradle his thighs.

"Love me?" he repeats, still not getting it, but the word sparking joy in his eyes anyway.

She splays a hand on his chest and pins him to the bed with her weight. The swoosh of his hair hitting the pillow doesn't make her feel powerful; instead there's this sense of deep responsibility, of something she has to do right.

"You want a promise, don't you, Castle?" She bends over him to kiss his ear, nip at his jaw. Her lips bloom into a smile when she feels him arch under her. "You want a statement. Well, I'm making one. Right now."

She abandons his chin regretfully, has to see the look in his eyes. They're wide, and a little awed, and yes - _yes_, he understands her.

"So let me do this," she whispers, her throat tightening because she's shy now, because he's looking at her and she's not sure she's really up to the task. But it's the only way.

The only way.

"Let me show you." She pulls the t-shirt off his head with his help, the used fabric so soft against her fingers, and she tosses it away, runs her hands down his chest. Down to the waist of his jeans.

"Show me," he murmurs, and his voice is so low, thready, she can't tell if it's a request or a question still.

She answers it anyway.

"How I love you."


End file.
